House Call
by blinkblink
Summary: This time, Dave managed to catch Hal before he hit the floor. This was so not good. MGSHouse M.D. crossover. No pairings. Last chapter, ch 5, up.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Metal Gear Solid, or House M.D., or in fact the characters belonging to either. Shock! This fic does/will contain spoilers for MGS/MGS2. Continuity-wise, it's set about a year after the Big Shell Incident in MGS2, and any time in House seasons one or two but not in either the Vogler or Stacey plot arcs. Enjoy!

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The name on the glass door of the office read "Dr. Gregory House M.D., Department of Diagnostic Medicine." The lights were out and the blinds on the outside windows pulled, which made a seven in eight chance of House not actually being in. There was always the possibility that he was sleeping on the floor behind his desk in order to shock the unwary, although in the hot summer months this was unlikely. The adjacent door, which led to the conference room, the room where work actually got done, was unlabelled. Dr. Alison Cameron considered this unfair, sometimes. It was the only office space which House's assistants had to call their own, and given that they did the complete share of his grunt work a placard at least seemed merited. At other times, the times when angry patients or their relatives showed up with semi-automatic weapons, she was thankful that their names went unadvertised.

Behind her, Chase and Foreman jogged to catch up, having caught a later elevator. They were chatting about last night's football game, or maybe baseball? House had probably seen it too, then. That meant more sports metaphors. Cameron hated sports metaphors.

Fortunately like the office, the lights in the conference room were out. This was not surprising. It was nine am on the dot, and House tended to on average show up at ten thirty. Eleven on days following game nights.

Cameron stepped into the conference room, flicking on the light, and noting that while the table was piled high with all the odds and ends left over from yesterday- newspapers, medical journals, printouts, a half-full coffee mug- there was no tell-tale red folder. No new patient. That too was unsurprising. Their last patient had checked out yesterday morning. Unless something of extreme interest showed up, House wouldn't let himself be bullied or conned into taking on another case for several days. At least this meant she would have time to edit the article she was working on.

"Good morning, sports fans." A low, gruff voice came from somewhere inside the apparently empty room. Cameron jumped. "About time you lot showed up."

House's head stuck out from under the far end of the conference table. Chase and Foreman crowded forward to stare at him over her shoulders. "Have you been experimenting on yourself- again?" It seemed like the most likely solution as to why her employer would be lying under their conference table in the dark at nine in the morning.

"Pft. I wish." He scowled at her, and then took a swipe at her legs. Used to his sometimes erratic use of his cane, she sidestepped easily, and then noted that he in addition to wantonly attacking her shins, he was prodding a laminated red file at her. A patient file. She crouched down and took it from him.

"Why are you on the floor, then?" Chase's voice, Australian accent slightly more prominent soon after waking, after less contact with Americans.

"Got a patient." He said it as if it explained everything.

"If you were worried about the patient- which is an unfathomable thought to begin with- you would be out running tests, or bugging nurses, or calling us with puzzling messages at 2 in the morning. Not sleeping under the table." Foreman, still leaning over her shoulder, pointed out. She opened the file, scanned through quickly.

36 year-old male, Caucasian, admitted by Dr. Gregory House yesterday at 6:38- half an hour after he would have finished his clinic duty, after they had all left- with complained symptoms consisting of fever, stomach ache, mucosal bleeding, exhaustion, weight loss and as of last night, seizure. There were also several files attached from various other clinics and doctors. Common consensus, she noted upon flipping through them, was that it was a bout of influenza resulting from either stress or depression.

Foreman finished reading before her, and made a scoffing noise in his throat. "There's nothing here, House. Guy's got the 'flu, possibly immune system is down due to weight loss- 5'10 and only 135? Could be resulting from either stress or depression, like the charts say. Seizure's weird, but could be late-onset epilepsy."

"I know what the charts say. I'm not interested in what the charts say."

"Are you interested in what _he_ says?" asked Chase incredulously from the back row.

"Nope." House began tapping his cane on the floor, somewhere under the desk. "Strike one."

"Did Cuddy make you? Is he some kind of big philanthropist?" Foreman's tone was sceptical.

"Nope. At least, not in the sense you mean. Strike two. And skinny steps up to bat." He leered at Cameron. She rolled her eyes.

"I don't care why you admitted him. If he's sick, he's sick. Let's find out why."

"Spoilsport."

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Two days earlier.

"You done in there, Hal?" Dave, wearing only his boxers and an old t-shirt, leaned against the bathroom door and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. He wasn't used to having to wait for the bathroom in the morning; Hal usually slept almost midday. It balanced out with the engineer's tendency to stay up almost until dawn. Sometimes they met each other in the wee hours of the morning, Hal turning in while Dave rolled out.

There was no answer from the bathroom, and no running water to account for it.

"Hal?" He knocked harder. The bathroom was in the middle of their 14th story apartment and was not graced with windows. No way for someone to have gotten in without having broken into the apartment first, which Dave certainly would have noticed.

"I'm coming in, Hal." Dave turned the knob, wiggling it to unstick the ill-fitted door from the frame, and met with resistance. He pushed harder, moving whatever it was out of the door's path. It turned out to be Hal's legs, sprawled on the cold linoleum. "Hal!"

The engineer was lying on his side, head on the floor next to the toilet-bowl which was filled with watery vomit. The cast of his skin was paler than usual, hair stuck to his face with sweat.

The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, was smaller than standard, and Dave had to shove his feet in against the wall and cupboard to get in alongside the younger man. He reached out and placed his fore and middle fingers against Hal's throat, his heart slowing when he found a steady pulse there. "Hal?" He shook the other man gently, turning him onto his back. "Hal, wake up."

The smell of vomit beginning to sicken him, he reached over and flushed the toiled, while continuing to shake the engineer gently with his right hand. The shaking, the sound of the toilet flushing directly next to his head or the two combined caused Hal to turn slightly, eyelashes beginning to flutter. He was not, Dave noticed, wearing his glasses. Had he run in from his room to be sick in the middle of the night, and not bothered with them? Dave placed a calloused hand against Hal's forehead. It was hot, hot enough to suggest a high fever. Did they own a thermometer?

"Mmm?" Hal moaned, opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times. "Dave?" He looked around, then up again at Dave, squatting awkwardly above him in the too-small bathroom. "What's going on?"

"You passed out, after being sick, apparently. Do you remember?"

"Being sick?" Hal brought a hand up, wiped it across his face. It was shaking gently. "I- uh, yeah. Yeah. I woke up and felt really rotten, stumbled in here. I remember being sick- hate being sick- then... nothing. I must've gone back to sleep..." He trailed off.

"I think it's more likely that you passed out. Can you get up?"

"Sure, yeah." He pushed himself up into a sitting position, allowing Dave to step back and stand up properly, room now for him to place both feet next to each other in a relatively normal position. Hal grabbed the lip of the shower's lining- they really needed a bigger apartment, when your bathroom was too small for a bath, it was too small- and hauled himself to his feet.

Dave turned and began rummaging in under the sink, searching for the possibly-existent thermometer.

"Dave?" Hal's voice sounded weak.

"Yeah?" He began to turn towards the other man when a promising plastic box caught his eye.

"I think I need to see a doctor."

"Wha-" Dave turned his head in time to see Hal's eyes beginning to roll, and turned completely in time to catch him before he hit the floor. His pulse now was quick and thready, and as Dave watched a small trickle of blood began to flow from his nose. "Hal?" He received no answer. "Not good."

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The day before, 6:14p.m.

House was not having a good day. His last patient, an idiot who hadn't thought to get a tetanus shot after spearing his hand with a rusty nail and then, even worse, had subsequently erased the event entirely from his memory, had been discharged at 11. He had been hoping to leave early, listen to his new U2 CD, maybe catch the pre-game commentary, and had instead been cornered by Cuddy and cruelly forced to endure four hours of clinic duty. That was four hours of his life spent diagnosing 'flu and pulled muscles he wasn't going to get back. The lesson of this story was to escape while the going was good, not to hang around with Wilson in the cafeteria, an act equivalent to wearing a big target on your chest _and_ back, and possibly even little shoulder ones as well. Cuddy had sharp eyes- he'd give her that.

But he had done his time, interspaced of course with generous breaks for General Hospital, E.R., and anything else which caught his attention while he channel-surfed. They needed better reception in the clinic rooms. And, having finished his shift- signed out and everything- he had returned to his office expecting to pick up his helmet and be out of Princeton-Plainsborough like a little winged mammal out of a big hot cave.

He had sure as that big hot cave not expected to find, when he flicked on his lights, that his office had been occupied. Twice over. What kind of idiot sat in the dark while waiting for someone?

The occupants of his office were two men. The one in his one interview chair- why did he even have that chair? It was nothing more than an invitation for a talk he wouldn't want to have- was obviously ill. His hair, dark and hacked badly into a short uneven cut, was damp with sweat, sticking to itself and his face. His skin was nearly translucent, cheek-bones too prominent. The way he slouched forwards slightly suggested abdominal pain or nausea, the irritation under his nose frequent wiping, either due to excess mucus or bleeding. In short, another bout of flu to add to his collection. The man perched in the shadows on the couch against his wall was not ill. But he was dangerous. House flicked on the light switch. Better visibility for him, and for anyone passing by his office in case of emergency. The man on the couch didn't flinch. He had longer hair, just as unkempt as his friend's, an ugly shade of blond, which fell down almost into his sharp, grey eyes. Although he wore a loose long-sleeved shirt and jeans, he was clearly well-built, strong and decisive looking. Soldier. Even before the cane, House might have worried. The fact that the face seemed familiar, and not in a good way, was another cause for concern.

"I'm afraid office hours are over for the day- week, in fact," it was Tuesday, "but if you come back later I'm sure our friendly clinic staff will have no trouble at all fitting you in." He paused, waited for movement. "Whenever you feel like going..." He held the door open, pointedly. The man in the chair- Sickie- turned in his seat, glanced at the other. "Anytime now..."

"You're Doctor House?" Couch-man spoke, voice lower and much more gruff than House's own. Guy'd better cut back on those cigarettes.

"I'm afraid he's gone home for the night, very busy, I'm just here to pick up some files." He limped over to his desk, grabbed the first file that met his hand and waved it around.

"You look like Doctor House to me," Couch-man didn't move, shot a glance at Sickie who settled back into his chair.

"Nonsense. He's much better looking. Nice having this chat, be sure to pick up some complimentary peppermints on your way out..." House made a break for the door. Couch-man was in his path before he got half way there.

"I'd like you to take a look at my friend here. We've been to several other doctors, with unsatisfactory results." A folder appeared in his hand; he must have had it behind him on the couch. He offered it to House.

"Well, you know, I'd love to, but the game's going to be starting soon and damn if my team doesn't lose every time I'm not there to cheer them on." House took a step forward, hand wrapped firmly around his cane's head.

"We should go, Dave. He obviously doesn't want to see us." Sickie spoke up from behind him, voice weak and raspy.

"We'll go when you can walk out of here on your own." Couch-man, no longer couch-man but now annoyingly-standing-in-Doctor-House's-way-man, glared around House's right shoulder.

"This whole good-cop bad-cop routine is real cute, guys, but if he can't walk on his own it's ER you're looking for, and if he can it's some bed rest. Either way, not my area."

"Every doctor we've seen so far says it's flu, caused by stress or depression. He's not stressed or depressed. He's passed out four times in the past two days, can't walk on his own, has significant changes in heart-rate, high fever topping off around 104.6, vomits after eating, sometimes before, gets random heavy nose bleeds and stomach pains."

"Ulcer." Time to appease annoyances, and get them out of the office. Annoying-man's face, back in the shadow of House's Ikea lamps, seemed to be more familiar.

"It's not an ulcer, second doctor ruled it out. Nothing wrong with his digestive system."

"Allergy." Unlikely to manifest with those symptoms, but possible, and common as well.

"He's not allergic to anything except coconut milk, which he doesn't drink. Besides, he hasn't been eating much of anything for the past couple of days."

"You know, there's no reason it couldn't just be stomach flu, or mono. Everyone reacts differently. Just because his immune system is obviously crap-"

"Tests on mono came back negative."

"There's no way those got run in a day."

"I had them rush." The way in which annoying-man said it made House believe him. Something clicked in his mind. Push the bad hair-cut back, dye the hair dark...

"Right." Was it? It was, wasn't it? House couldn't decide if this was terrifying, or just way cool. He had an international hero/terrorist _in his office_. This was even cooler than that time with the mob. He forcibly suppressed the urge to call Wilson. It wasn't like he was a teenage girl who needed company in the bathroom. He could handle his gushing all on his own. "I can have him admitted for a day or two for tests. Give me that folder." He dropped the folder he was holding, some crap the hospital lawyer had been pushing him to sign, and took the one handed to him, flipped through it. "You're ... Henry Elder?" He looked at Sickie who nodded, pushed his wire-frame glasses up on his nose. The initials fit, at least. He scanned the file. Routine stuff, all tests negative, incompetent suggestions mostly for bed rest, one for acupuncture one for a psychiatrist- like that would help. "And you are?" He turned to the other man.

"David Shellby. We're roommates." He stuck out a hand. House, smothering a grin, took it. He was somewhat surprised when 'David' didn't try to crush his hand. Just a reasonable, firm shake.

"Dammit." Sickie's voice, apparently actually that weak, broke House's train of thought. He turned back to find the other man sponging up a nose-bleed with his sleeve. He looked up, not at House, the doctor, as expected, but at David.

"Can we get him into a bed, now?"

"Yeah, sure." House limped over to his desk, scribbled briefly on a free piece of paper, turned back and handed it to David, who had followed him over silently. He jerked back, but managed not to overbalance into his desk. "Whoa. Here, take him down to the front desk and give them this. They'll have him admitted."

"Right." David took the piece of paper, folded it quickly and tucked it away into a pocket. He bent down and grabbed Sickie's elbow. "Let's go," he said, quietly, and tugged. Sickie obediently stood like a dog hearing his name called, took a couple of steps, right hand still pressed to his nose to stem the blood flow. They almost made it to the door before Sickie's knees bucked. David caught him easily, laid him out on the floor. Even from across the room, House could spot the tell-tale muscle tensing, unresponsiveness.

"You're going to want to hold him down."

"What? Why-" David didn't have time to finish his question, as Sickie began to seize, body shaking and bucking uncontrollably. Always with the seizures. Just once, he'd like to have a patient who could get through an illness without them. House watched, wincing slightly, as the bigger man tried to trap Sickie's limbs, and stuck two fingers in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue off. Eew. What kind of freak used his own fingers for that? "Help him, already!" At least David was too busy stopping his pal from bashing his head into goo on the floor to turn and glare.

House sighed. At least his office had good reception.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I continue to not own MGS/2 or House M.D. This is so depressing for me.

Thanks to the wonderful reviewers. I have to say I'm kind of surprised, I hadn't expected the MGS fandom to be very active at all. Apparently I was wrong!

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"Do you think some day, House will actually take a patient history himself?" Chase pressed the down button on the elevator, stepped back.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "I'm sure he's done it before. What do you think he did before we came along?"

"Didn't treat anyone."

"He must have done something all day."

"What makes you so sure?"

The elevator dinged, and the two of them stepped in. "Foreman lucked out again." Chase pressed the button again, and the doors slid shut. Foreman had been sent by House to arrange for blood tests and a gastroscopy so they too could rule out an ulcer, while Cameron and Chase had been sent to collect a history. Why House felt it required both of them to complete the simple task, Cameron wasn't sure. Mind games were probably involved.

"Don't you want to see the mysterious patient who actually got House to agree to treat him?" Cameron asked.

"Way I hear it from the nurses, it was mysterious patient's boyfriend. Apparently the guy's six foot two of sheer muscle, and acts like he knows how to use it."

Cameron shot Chase a sceptical look. "Right." The elevator dinged, and they stepped out.

Mr. Henry Elder, like all of House's patients, had been assigned a single room in order to reduce complaints to the hospital. The fact that House's patients, for one reason or another, invariably required the intensive care and equipment provided in a single room was also a factor. While many nurses considered House's patients to be cursed, either by fate or by dint of having House as their doctor, the fact was that House rarely took, or was assigned, patients whose illnesses weren't likely to be critical.

Elder was lying flat in the bed, hooked up to a standard electrolyte drip iv and heart-rate monitor, and looking like crap. Pale skin, thin face, damp hair. His eyes were closed, breathing and heart rate slow. Almost certainly sleeping. Sitting on a chair next to him was his "boyfriend." The man stood up to greet the two doctors. While Cameron suspected he wasn't any taller than six feet, he certainly was well-built. But House wasn't one to be bullied into things, at least not if blackmail wasn't involved. Which opened the door to a whole new realm of possibilities.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Cameron, and this is Doctor Chase." Cameron introduced herself and Chase to the companion, walking forward to shake his hand.

The man cleared his throat quietly. "Nice to meet you. I'm David Shellby, Henry's housemate." He glanced at his housemate, who was still sleeping. "Can I do something for you?"

"We're arranging to run some tests on Mr. Elder, but before that I'd like to ask him some questions to get his medical history." She turned to look at the sleeping man. Shellby followed her gaze.

"He'll probably sleep for a while. You can try to wake him up if you want, but..." Shellby shrugged. "I haven't had much luck there. Whatever's wrong with him is making him sleep this heavily?" He inflected the statement to create a question.

Chase moved over behind her to check Elder's pupil dilation, and then his chart. "It's likely, yes. If it's an infection- which we haven't verified yet- the heavy sleeping could be a result of his immune system having to work over time, causing exhaustion."

"Right."

"He doesn't usually sleep heavily, then?" slipped in Cameron.

Shellby gave her an odd look, then shrugged again. "Not that I've noticed. He's usually pretty..." he twisted his hands, visibly searching for a word.

"Active?" Suggested Chase.

"Twitchy. Drinks lots of caffeine, pulls all-nighters. You know."

"We really need this information." She walked over to his bedside, slipping by Chase, and put a firm hand on Elder's shoulder. "Mr. Elder? Mr. Elder, can you hear me?" She shook him, gently. No response. She turned back to Shellby. "Do you know if he has any relatives we could contact?" Cameron pulled out the forms for emphasis.

"No. I mean, no, he doesn't. His parents died when he was a kid." Shellby crossed his arms over his chest, looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"No siblings?" asked Chase as he leant down and hooked the chart back onto the foot of the bed.

"His half-sister died last year in an accident. She was the only one that I know of. But if you need information, I can probably answer most of the questions. I'm signed up to make decisions for him if he can't, anyway. His medical proxy."

Cameron looked up, sharply. He caught her glance and smiled slightly. "He's got no relatives, like I said, and not too many friends. He needed someone to make choices for him if he was out of it, and I was the only one around, pretty much."

"I guess I can ask you, and double-check it with him when he wakes up." Cameron pulled a pen out of her coat pocket. Behind her Chase sighed quietly. This really was a one person job.

"Sure." Shellby sat down, then realised there was only one seat in the room, and stood up again, offering it to her. Cameron smiled, and waved him back into it. Who said chivalry was dead? That, or the man was a real player.

"Don't worry about it, we're used to standing."

Shellby smiled, and sat down again. Cameron turned to page one, and clicked open her pen.

Not surprisingly, Shellby was able to tell her next to nothing about Elder's family's medical history. He was, however, more knowledgeable about the man himself.

"Has he ever visited Africa, South-East Asia, Central or South America?"

"Uh, yeah. He's been to Brazil, and Malaysia."

"How long ago was that?"

"Brazil about three years ago, Malaysia maybe one and a half. Is it important?"

Cameron noted them down, but shook her head at the same time. "It could be but... probably not. Has he received imports from Africa, South-East Asia, or Central or South America?"

"No."

"Has he been out of the country at all in the last six months?"

"He took a trip up to Montreal maybe..." a pause for calculation, "two months ago."

Again, unlikely.

"Does he work around dangerous chemicals, or pesticides?"

"No, he works from home. Desk job."

"Any significant change in activities in the past six months? Did he start visiting anywhere new?"

"He doesn't really get out much."

"Dietary changes?"

"No. I guess he leads a pretty boring life, when I think about it." Shellby scratched the back of his head contemplatively.

Cameron sighed. The guy apparently lived out of his house. The house...

"Have you made any recent changes to your house? New carpet, new furniture..."

"Nothing new. Sorry."

Strike that option out as well. Cameron sighed, looked up at Shellby. "It is possible that his condition was caused by severe emotional turmoil. Stress or depression could..." she trailed off suggestively.

"No. The other doctors also suggested that, but nothing's changed in his life in the past six months, in the past year. He hasn't seemed any different than usual, and he denied being stressed or depressed. I mean, I know if he were depressed he might not admit it, but he has no reason to be. And he _would_ admit to being stressed out." Shellby seemed sure. Cameron noted it down.

"That pretty much wraps this up." She glanced at Elder, still sleeping stilly. She flipped the form shut. "Can you think of any reason for Mr. Elder's illness?"

"Not unless spending too much time on the computer can make you sick- in which case he would have been dead years ago anyway." Shellby rubbed at his face with both hands, the action indicating exhaustion. Cameron straightened up as a prelude to leaving, and heard Chase do the same behind her.

"Well, thank you for your help. Doctor Foreman will be along soon to perform some tests. If you wanted to go home for a while..."

Shellby gave her a wan smile. "We live in Boston. I haven't had time to rent a hotel room yet. I was kind of figuring on camping out here, to tell you the truth. That okay?"

Cameron mentally reprimanded herself. She should have known they were from Boston, their address was in the file. "Of course. That's very common. We'll see you in a while."

Cameron turned, found Chase had already slid open the door for her, and exited, useless information in hand. Chase slid the door shut behind her while she headed for the elevator. They met Foreman on his way out of it.

"Get anything?" The other man was wheeling a small gurney piled up with the equipment for the gastroscopy, television and all.

"Nope. It was a complete waste of time. Man has no life. No travelling, no lifestyle changes, no dietary changes, no prior record of illness as far as his friend knows," answered Chase.

"Friend? The nurses say-"

"_He_ says they're just roommates," put in Cameron, frowning at Chase.

"He says? What happened to 'everyone lies?' You just want him to be straight because you think he's good looking. Besides, what kind of guy would drive someone who was just his roommate all over the Eastern Seaboard looking for a good doc?"

"Just because you might be too selfish-"

"All right you two, break it up already. Geez." Foreman waved a hand in between them. Both turned to glare at him. "I need to go do those tests. You should give House that info, even if it is useless. He'll probably like that. More data to confirm that this case has no merits."

"Right." Business-like again, Cameron pressed the button for the elevator, and stepped into it when it opened immediately. Chase followed behind her, Foreman heading off down the hall. The door closed.

"So, _do_ you have the hots for him?"

Cameron glared at Chase. Men.

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"Hal. Hal, wake up already."

Hal, feeling extremely groggy, waved a hand at the irritating voice to his left, or tried to. Was his arm usually this heavy? He opened his eyes, to find Dave sitting by his side. They were in the hospital room; he had been admitted last night after having a seizure in the doctor's office. Whoever said that new experiences could be fun had obviously not tried seizures. That had definitely not been fun.

"Whur?" His tongue was heavy, too. And his stomach hurt like a bitch.

"About time you woke up. The doctor just left."

"Doctor? Doctor House?" The grumpy guy with the cane? And he had thought Dave could be grouchy.

"No, one of his assistants. There are three of them, so far."

"Must be a pretty good doctor, then." His tongue was beginning to work again. He felt light-headed, though. Hard to think clearly. Hot. Might have something to do with the way his heart seemed to be jumping every now and then.

"That's the word on the street."

"What were the tests for?" Hal craned his neck to look at the heart-rate monitor on his left. The numbers were blurry. Was he wearing his glasses?

"They took some blood, for infections, I think. They also snaked a wire down your throat. Looking for an ulcer."

"I don't have an ulcer."

"I know. It was kind of cool to watch, though."

"I'm glad I'm providing you with amusement... while I lie here dying." He should not have had to stop to breathe there.

Dave rolled his eyes. "You're not dying, Hal. The doctor said your white cell count is down, and put you on a broad range of antibiotics. They should help."

"Right. Do you have my glasses?"

"Yeah." Dave turned, grabbed them from where they had been sitting on a small table shoved into the corner of the room. "Are you going to stay awake long enough to need them?"

"Gimmie." Hal wiggled his fingers in what he hoped would pass for a possessive gesture. Dave unfolded them and placed them delicately on his face. The world came into focus. Dave's face, previously mostly a blur, resolved into a picture of exhaustion. "Maybe you should get some sleep... You look like crap."

"Thanks. You look worse, though. If we both pass out, who's going to sit here and answer questions about your medical history?" Dave turned his head sharply as he finished to look towards the hall. Hal tilted his gently, allowing its weight to help roll it over on the pillow. A pair of doctors, a young woman and man both wearing long white lab coats, were standing at the door. The woman pulled it open and stepped in.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Elder. I'm one of your doctors, Dr. Cameron. This is Dr. Chase. How are you feeling?" She stepped in and walked over to stand behind him, Dr. Chase closing the door behind them and moving to stand over by Dave.

"Kind of weak. Stomach hurts."

"We think you have an infection; your raised white cell count suggests that. We've put you on antibiotics to help with it. With luck, we should get you cleared up in a day or two. But just in case, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about your family's medical history."

"Sure."

The questions were straightforward and quick. Neither of his parents had had any genetic disorders, to his knowledge, other than his father's myopia, another Emmerich curse. Both had died young of accident or suicide. He confirmed Dave's answers to the rest of the questions about his lifestyle.

"Could I have a word with you alone, Mr. Elder?" Dr. Cameron tilted a glace towards Dave, who looked at him. Hal shrugged, and Dave stood. Dr. Chase escorted him out into the hall.

"We're just friends." He said, voice raspy.

"Pardon?" Dr. Cameron stared, mild surprise evident on her face.

"The only questions you might have had that you felt you needed him ... out of the room for would be about him. You either wanted to ask that or... if I'm doing his sister. He doesn't have a sister."

"I... had no idea we were so transparent." The woman smiled. Hal smiled back, reflexively. She was pretty cute. "You understand that it's important we have this information for medical purposes?"

"Yes. I understand. But it's the truth. We're both straight in any case."

"Okay." She jotted something down. "Can I ask when you last slept with anyone?"

Hal flushed slightly. "I don't get out much. It was ... it's been a while."

"How long?"

"Six, seven months maybe." A one-night stand, with a waitress at the local bar. She'd been winking at him every time he came in for weeks.

"Did you use protection."

"Yeah." The fact that she had insisted as well had made him feel slightly better.

"Right." Dr. Cameron wrote it all down.

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"We're not gay." Dave mentioned it offhand, as he bent to pick up his soda from the vending machine's dispenser. He looked up to see Dr. Chase staring at him. "I assume that's what the other doctor, Dr. Cameron, is asking him?"

"Uh, yeah. You're sure..."

"Just friends. Sure." Dave popped the lid on the can, took a swig. "Closest contact we ever had was CPR. He fell into a pool last year. Can't swim. Clumsiest guy you've ever met." Dave moved over to sit on a wooden bench across the hall from Hal's room, watched him talking to the doctor through the glass. Watched him take a breath in the middle of a sentence, again. "Is he going to be okay?"

Doctor Chase- these doctors were all so young, did they even know what they were doing? Were they really a better option than tracking down Naomi Hunter or one of her associates?- turned to watch through the window as well. "We've just started him on the antibiotics. We should see a response soon. Reduction in fever, more controlled heart rate and breathing."

"What if it's not an infection?"

"The elevated white count is pretty conclusive."

On the other side of the glass, Hal waved at the doctor, sat up in bed jerkily, sweating, hands pressed against his mouth. Dave stood. The doctor fetched a bowl from a table, brought it over to him to retch into. In the few seconds it took Dave and Dr. Chase to get into the room, Hal had nearly filled the bowl with blood.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Don't own MGS/2 or House M.D., or EVEN the characters.

That last chapter seems to have scared off the reader base. Oh well, I shall continue to frolic onwards alone. This chapter was pretty much the most fun to write, although frankly the whole fic was a lot of fun. But, come on, it includes Batman references. What's not to love? For those of you bravely continuing onwards: enjoy!

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House looked up from his Gameboy as the conference room door opened. Chase and Cameron walked in, set expressions on their faces a guarantee something had happened. Foreman put down the print-out he had been reading.

"The antibiotics aren't working. He just vomited up half a pint of blood." Chase flung himself down into an empty chair, Cameron seating herself with slightly more grace. Women were always so girly. Wait, was that redundant?

"New symptom: vomiting blood." House got up, snagged his cane, and limped over to the whiteboard, which was currently headed SICKIE, with a list of symptoms under it reading: fever, stomach pain, nausea, exhaustion, nose bleeds, up white count, tachycardia. House penned in 'vomiting blood' at the end.

"He's also had some bloody diarrhea," added Cameron, closing Elder's chart and placing it on the table.

"Could be a result of the antibiotics." House wrote it down anyway. "So, who wants to revise our oh-so-simple diagnosis of infection?" He waved his cane at his three assistants.

"Elevated white count means," began Chase.

"Oh, stop being such a stick in the mud. No one wants infections. They're no fun. Environmental, now _that__'__s_ exciting. Foreman and Chase, check out the apartment."

"But that's all the way in Boston. It'll take _hours_ to drive there." God, Chase could be whiney.

"Well, you'd better start driving and hope the patient doesn't die while you're gone. Better yet, hope he does, then you won't have to do any work when you get back. Ta ta." He waved his cane at them some more, for good measure. Foreman rolled his eyes but stood, Chase following.

"You're not sending me with Chase again?" Cameron watched them disappear down the hallway, turned back to House who had already re-started his Gameboy.

"Gotta keep my pinch-hitter in the dugout. But since I wouldn't want you to get bored, you can go do a lumbar puncture to confirm the infection theory."

"You just told Chase and Foreman you thought it wasn't one!"

"No, I said environmental would be more _fun_." House grinned.

"I cannot believe you." Cameron stormed out, as much as it was possible for 85 pounds to storm, letting the door slam shut behind her. House continued to grin.

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House had moved on to watching General Hospital by the time Foreman and Chase returned, several hours later. Sickie had in that time managed to produce another symptom, pleuritis. House considered this as both a pro and con. On the one hand, it didn't point to infection any more than as to anything else, which was unhelpful. On the other hand when breathing was difficult and painful, it meant the patient tended to talk less; always a bonus. Cameron, good little doctor that she was, had gone off to run gels- in hopes of pinpointing the infection- against astronomical odds. House paged her when he saw Chase and Foreman walk out of the elevator.

"We've got a problem." Foreman dropped his backpack, presumably full of samples, on the conference room floor. Cameron slipped in the door behind him.

"You're late!" accused House, finger pointed. She just glared. Finally growing a backbone. About time. He turned back to Foreman. "What problem? Jacking skills let you down?"

"No." Foreman didn't even bother to glare. "We got into the apartment fine. It just wasn't the right apartment."

"How do you know?" Cameron asked.

"Of the two bedrooms, one was a woman's. Underwear, skirts, tampons, the whole nine yards."

"This is great." House stood, walked over into his office and grabbed a piece of paper from his printer, stuffed it in a pocket.

"You think it's great that our trip was totally useless? We know nothing about what kind of environmental factors might have caused this! Our patient lied to us and we wasted five hours we could have been spending saving his life!" Foreman didn't bother to stop shouting when House returned to the conference room.

"Oh, relax. It's not environmental." He limped over to the hall door, opened it. "Coming?"

"What do you mean, it's not environmental? Do you know what it is?" Chase pulled his lab coat off the coat hook, struggled into it as House led the way down the hall.

"Nope." House pushed the elevator button with his cane.

"Then how do you know its not environmental?" Chase was glaring now. Did he think that was intimidating?

"Well, it's obviously an infection."

"You said it was environmental!"

"I'm pretty sure I already had this conversation." The elevator dinged, doors sliding open, and they all crowded in. House heard Cameron briefing the other two on their earlier conversation, and the pleuritis. They really needed to get some elevator music around here.

Sickie's floor was mostly deserted. Not surprising, it was almost dinner time. Hunger beat devotion, 95 of the time. Cameron and her to-die-for waistline were a living example of the other 5.

House slammed the door to Sickie's room open, startling David who almost jumped to his feet. Sleeping to fully active in .5 seconds. Not bad. Sickie looked up, squinting slightly, trying to compensate for myopia. What a geek. House walked in far enough to give his three stooges room to enter behind him, waited for the sound of the door closing.

"So, which one of you likes wearing mommy's clothes?" House leered at the two of them.

The two men stared back. He could feel his assistants staring at him behind his back. God, he loved these scenes.

"What?" David really needed to cut back on the nicotine. House's motorcycle sounded smoother.

"My campers here took a drive over to your apartment. Turns out, one of you's a girl."

Blank look from Sickie, appraising from David. "Of course, there's a more likely option. That wasn't your apartment. Which means you lied on the Hospital's paperwork. Now, I figure there's only two reasons you two would have for that. One: you've got a totally rad shag-pad hidden somewhere, and you don't want us accidentally busting in on it."

Sickie coughed. Probably faking. Young, yet already exploiting illness for profit. David glared. "I told you, we are _not_-"

"Or, number two," House blazed right on, "you don't want us finding the Bat Cave. Blond's not really your colour, Snake. Can I call you Snake? Or do you have a first name?" Oh yeah. He was loving this. "I'm kind of betting David really is your name, since you'd hardly trust Sickie there to remember anything while his brain turns to mush."

Behind him, he heard the shuffle of clothing and Cameron say, "what?" and Foreman say, very quietly but distinctly, "oh crap."

"I don't know what you're talking about." David, AKA Snake, was not a very good actor. House pulled out his printout and turned it so it was facing the two men. On it were a couple of pictures he'd yanked off a news website from a couple of years ago.

"Oh, don't be so modest. You're internationally famous. You really thought a bottle of dye'd solve your problems?"

"House, are you really suggesting that this man is Solid Snake?" Foreman was whispering. This was new. He'd finally found something that could make the man shut up.

"Yep. And I'm betting exhibit B over there's his geeky sidekick Robin. Or Hal Emmerich. You could at least have chosen a name with different initials. _Serious _giveaway."

"We need to call security," hissed Cameron behind her. Chase shushed her. Snake moved to stand next to Sickie, fingers wrapping around the iv protruding from Sickie's left hand.

"What? You going to pick him up and carry him out of here, and just hope he doesn't die on the way out the doors?" House watched as the man loosened his grip, looked directly at House and glared. House glared back.

"He's not dying."

"Maybe not in the next few hours. But if he keeps developing new symptoms at the rate he's been going..." House made an exploding gesture with his hands. "Boom. Besides, you try to move him now, you'll probably send his heart into arrest anyway."

"I think he we need to discuss this outside," said Snake, glancing down at Sickie, whose heart rate was already not looking so hot.

"I think you shouldn't move Mr. Shellby- or whoever you are," said Cameron, from behind him. House rolled his eyes. This was not the time to be showing off that developing backbone. "I'm going to call security," he heard her slide towards the wall-phone.

"Don't move." Snake was unarmed, but the step forward he took, contriving to move all the way around the foot of the bed in a single motion, was definitely threatening.

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

"We're not here to hurt anyone. As soon as he gets better, we'll leave. Like Dr. House says, I move him, he dies, so we're stuck here or we'd leave now." He waited for Cameron to back down. She didn't. "Don't make me stop you." The man continued to glare. Damn, House wished he could be that scary wearing days-old clothes and acting on no sleep.

"Cameron," hissed Chase.

Time to run interference. "Cameron, don't touch the phone. You, stop glaring. No one's going to call anyone. And no one's going to attack anyone, either." He continued to glare at Snake, whose expression shifted to one of serious but not yet deadly contemplation. He still stood ready to move, though. House continued on, maintaining eye contact, "we can't call him in, it would be a breach of patient-doctor confidentiality, and all that other moral stuff you guys are always ragging me about."

"He's not our patient," said Cameron. "We're not legally- or morally- bound to not turn him in."

"And you think if you did, the cops wouldn't figure out who the man in the bed with H.E. for initials was?" He hated it when she was smart. Fortunately, he was about a million times smarter. Well, at least several.

"They're international terrorists, House! They run around shooting people with uzis!"

House turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Uzis?"

Snake coughed. "We don't, actually. I mean, he doesn't shoot anyone. And I use tranq. guns. The only things we destroy are Metal Gears."

"See? They're not terrorists, they're _heroes_." It took skill to squeeze that much condescension into a single sentence. House considered himself a master of that skill.

"But..."

"You can either not call because I tell you not to, or because he'd break your neck if you did. Pick whichever option makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

"I'm not going to break anyone's-"

Mr. I-can-be-macho-without-resorting-to-violence was cut off abruptly, when his I-can't-be-macho-at-all pal started screaming. More like groaning loudly, really. No sense of drama there. Snake turned to look at him, dropping the macho act like a rookie waitress handed too many plates at once.

"Ha-enry?" Snake vowel-shifted mid-name.

House snorted. Foreman hurried over, Chase and Cameron more hesitant.

"What's wrong with him?

Sickie was sweating like crazy. Forman grabbed a thermometer and stuck it in his ear. It beeped almost immediately and he retrieved it, glanced at the numbers, did a double take. "Shit."

"What?" Nice echo effect they had in here, both of the other two stooges and Snake.

"106.7. He needs to be in an ice bath, now." Foreman ran out into the hall followed by Chase, both returning in seconds with their arms full of cold water bottles. Foreman passed a couple to Cameron who secured one on Sickie's forehead and stomach, while he and Chase emptied the rest of them onto the sweating man, who fought the cold water weakly.

"Hey. Snake. David. Whatever." House watched as the man looked up from the corner of the room where he had moved to allow the doctors swarming around the bed more space. "Come on. We need to talk."

The man moved to do as asked, stopped to glance back at the bed. "What can you do for him? Hold his hand?" House waited a beat, relented. "They'll look after him. Come on."

He led the way out into the hall, down a few yards to the artificial lounge area created right in the middle of the large corridor. He sat down in one of the black leather chairs, waited for the other man to do the same. Snake did, after a minute.

"How long have you known?" God, that sounded a lot more sordid than it really was.

"Since you came in. Told you, that dye does nothing for you." House smirked

"Heh. And you took the case anyway? Or is that why you took it? From what I hear, you're not too eager to take on patients." Snake smirked right on back. Bastard. Time to bring out the big guns.

"You sure this is what you want to be talking about, while your friend's dying?"

Snake's eyes narrowed. "You said-"

"That was before he spiked a fever of 106.7 while on antibiotics."

"So before he's sick, now he's dying?"

"That's how it works. Cause and effect relationship. Surprised you didn't know about them." House leant forward. "Look. The cat's out of the bag now. If there's something relating to your ... line of work which could be causing this, now's the time to let me know."

"I haven't lied about anything, concerning his illness. And I haven't withheld anything either. You have all the facts."

"Everybody lies, Mr. _Southby_." Fact.

"Shellby. And you'll notice I didn't say I hadn't lied at all." Snake's tone was low, dangerous again. Like anyone could be intimidating in the middle of the cheerful lounge area, complete with mini rainforest-in-a-box. But the man damn well near managed it. "I understand the dangers of being badly briefed, or misinformed. You know everything you need to."

"With you deciding what we need to know."

"You ask me any medically-relevant question, and I'll answer it truthfully. So will he."

"Assuming his brain isn't fried already." House met Snake's eyes. Stalemate. Bastard wouldn't let himself be manipulated, at least not by emotion. "Give me your address, then. We need to check your house for environmental causes." Stick...

"Can't do that. I can tell you anything you need to know about it, ventilation, furniture, food."

"That won't get me the samples I need." Carrot...

"I'm not sick. He never was before. Nothing in the apartment has changed, nothing on the floor has changed, and he hasn't eaten or drank anything I haven't except for the dark roast, which I highly doubt has suddenly become toxic."

Complete failure to comply. Dammit.

"Mr. ... Shellby?"

House glanced up, as did Snake. Chase was standing to House's left. "We've got Mr. Elder's temperature down to 103.7. That's still quite high, but not immediately dangerous. We're going to keep him in the ice bath for a little longer, try to get his temperature down another couple of degrees."

"But you still don't know what's wrong with him, right? So if you take him out, his temperature'll just go back up again, won't it?"

Chase sighed. House sympathized, vaguely, or would have if it hadn't been Chase. Maybe. It was always easier when the relatives were complete idiots. "That's right. It's our hope that before his temperature gets too high again, we'll have figured out what type of infection it is, and be able to treat him for it."

"And if not? He can't live in a tub full of ice cubes."

"It's possible that his immune system will defeat the infection on its own, if we can keep the illness from progressing further. Mr. Elder's physical condition is not very strong, though. I wouldn't count on his being able to recover alone."

"So we wait for you to figure out what this is? And if it takes too long then what?" Snake glanced at House. "'His brain fries'?"

Chase glared at House who shrugged, look of complete innocence plastered on his face.

"It is possible, yes."

"What are his odds?"

"If we can't confirm the infection by tomorrow, at the rate he's degrading..." Chase faded out, ominously.

"He dies." Snake's voice was completely steady. Once again, the emotional attack failed completely. Damn, the guy was good. As expected. House smirked, mouth hidden by the head of his cane.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: No ownership of Metal Gear Solid/2 or House M.D. involved.

We have experienced a rebooting of the MGS fan-population. Thanks for your support and kind words. Only one chapter left after this sucker. Enjoy.

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Wilson took a sip of his coffee, putting it down carelessly and nearly spilling it on the drug-trial report he was reading. Moving it aside more carefully, he continued scanning down the page which swayed slightly in the light evening breeze coming in from the balcony.

His door slammed open, and he looked up. It wasn't as though he needed to. Only one person was liable to burst into his office at 11 pm. House limped in, looking actually excited. Wilson began to surreptitiously move his hand towards his coffee.

"You'll never guess who my patient is. Well, he's not actually my patient, but they're probably doing each other, so it still counts." House dragged a chair away from the desk and dropped down into it.

"Who?" For House to be this excited, it must actually be somebody. Even he didn't usually fake emotion for his mind-games. Well, not positive ones, anyway.

"I can't tell you. But I'll give you a hint. His name rhymes with Solid Snake."

"Get out." Thoughts about the drug-trial were booted abruptly into the back-seat.

"It's true." House smirked, as though he had personally gone out and brained the man and dragged him back as a trophy.

"You have the hero of Shadow Moses sitting in a room somewhere in this hospital?"

"Yep."

"No way." Still, this was beyond cool.

"Only problem is, his partner seems to be dying."

House propped his feet up on the edge of Wilson's desk.

"Do you know why?"

"Nope. Kiddies are off running gels trying to pinpoint an infection. It's killing him without any specifying symptoms, just a bunch of mundane but eventually deadly ones."

"That's a problem."

"Yeah." House sat up abruptly, feet swinging down off the desk, swatted at his arm. "You keep your door open?" He glanced at the open door to the balcony.

"It gets to be a million degrees in here in the day. Full southern exposure. You know that."

"So shut your blinds like a normal person. God knows what these mosquitoes could be..." House stood up. "Gotta go." He made a grab for Wilson's coffee, snagging it before Wilson could beat him to it. "See ya."

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Foreman pulled the latest results up on the screen, and sighed. "Negative for Cholera. Why are we even testing for that? He'd be dead already."

"It's on House's list." Cameron didn't look up from her microscope

"Yeah, his list of cool infections. We need a list of _likely_ infections."

A computer beeped. "Negative for T.B." said Chase from the other side of the lab.

Another beeping, this time his pager. Chase's and Cameron's went off in seconds. They turned for the door, and stopped short when House came through it.

"Why'd you page us if you were coming to us anyway?" Foreman tucked his pager back onto his belt in frustration.

"I like watching you guys jump. Have you tested for West Nile?"

"It's next on the cool but demented list."

"Run the test."

"Did you not hear what I just said? We've been wasting our time running tests for stuff the guy'd never get. Just because his job is unusual, doesn't mean his illness will be."

"Job," muttered Cameron from his right.

"We're going to exsanguinate this guy before we find what's killing him."

"Run the test. One of you two," Foreman saw House motion at Chase and Cameron out of the corner of his eye as he walked over to secure a new blood sample, "tell me why we're testing for it."

"Because... the symptoms suggest it?" Chase's tone was uncertain.

"Of course they do, we wouldn't test for something they rule out. They also suggest about a thousand other things." House's tone was caustic. "Cameron?"

"I have no idea. For all I know, it's because you have some obscure reason for wanting it to be West Nile."

"Iint." House made a buzzer sound. "Also wrong. The answer's in his medical history, morons. The one _you_ two took, together."

Foreman slid the sample into the computer and turned to watch the rout.

"The history was totally useless! He hadn't been to Africa or the Middle East, or anywhere else you might-" Chase was cut off by Cameron.

"Montreal. He was in Montreal about two months ago, and Eastern Canada has been suffering from bouts of West Nile in the summers recently. It's extremely unlikely that it would stay dormant this long, but if his immune system was handling it until something stressful came along..."

"Exactly," said House, and turned to Foreman. The computer beeped, graph appearing on the screen.

"Just one problem. He doesn't have it."

"What?" House limped over to stand behind him. "Damn. Run the test again."

"House..."

"Do it. It fits. Its perfect."

"Except for the part where there's no cure," stuck in Cameron.

"You can't have everything."

Foreman pulled a new sample and began the test again.

"What if it isn't West Nile? We sit around here running gels hoping to hit on the right one until it he dies?" Chase waved an arm in an angry gesture.

"Why can't it be environmental, something about his ... job." Suggested Cameron, spitting out the last word. Foreman slanted a glance at her.

"Already ruled out."

"Why? Because he said so? What happened to everyone lies?"

"If it's environmental then he's either dead or going to recover on his own, because neither of them are going to tell us where they live.." House nodded at the screen, and Foreman turned around in time for the computer to beep at him again, redrawing the graphs.

"Still negative."

"Dammit."

"What now?" Foreman stored the sample, shut down the testing program.

"Do what you want. I'm going home to sleep." House turned, limped out of the room. After a minute, Cameron began to follow him.

"You're leaving?" Foreman asked. She turned.

"Why should I stay?"

"Uh," Foreman blinked, "because he's your patient, and he needs you?"

"He's responsible for hundreds of deaths, Foreman! If he really is who House thinks he is, he's the man who practically invented Metal Gears. Every death they've caused is on his conscience."

"Yeah, keyword _his_. Not yours. You don't get to judge him. That's not your job. Your job is to cure him."

"So he can go back to killing."

"They're working to stop those things. You heard them. Everyone knows it," put in Chase.

"I should believe that, just because they say so? They sank that tanker three years ago. The crew all died! It was the worst marine environmental disaster in history!"

"Cameron, I don't know if they were responsible for that or not. Even if they were, it's still our job to suck it up and take care of them. You know how slippery a slope this will become, if you start judging everyone who comes in here. Since when do you judge anyone, anyway?" Foreman looked at her quizzically.

"Since people I knew could easily have been on that tanker. It could have been people you knew, too. Or don't you know anyone in the Marines?" she replied angrily.

"If this is a personal issue, you should take yourself off the case."

"I'm not saying I wouldn't help him if he went into distress while I was standing there. I'm saying I'm not going to work overtime for him." She turned and left. Both men watched her go.

"That was weird." said Chase.

"Yeah. You staying?"

"I don't know anyone in the Marines. And I don't believe everything I see on the news here, either."

"Probably a smart choice."

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Dave woke, for no discernable reason. He reflexively checked Hal's monitors, all appeared to be okay. His heart rate had dropped from a regular 85 to 65 in the past 24 hours. And his fever, left unchecked, had risen a good three degrees. Dave glanced at his watch. 5:25 am. What a time to be awake. He stood, stretching, and slipped out into the hallway.

The hospital was dead silent around him. He refused to wince at his own metaphor. After a last glance through the glass to check the heart monitor, he began a slow walk through the hospital corridors. The place was a maze filled with endless doors with long complicated names. That was medicine for you. Put everything in Latin, make up long winding explanations, and suddenly you have the power of intellectual superiority over the rest of the world. The ability to sucker them into anything, because they have no choice but to trust your advice. Dave would take a gun over wielding that kind of power, any day.

He slipped into a stairwell and travelled up a few levels. Exited up on the floor Dr. House's office was on, and wandered down the hallway. The rooms here were mostly offices, gynaecology, neurology, oncology. He found a handy bench and lay down. It was good to finally let the kinks straighten out of his back. He had considered lying on the floor in Hal's room, but that would have blocked access to the bed and possibly worried the nurses who were all watching him all the time anyway. At any other time the attention would have been welcome, but with the situation as it was... annoying, frustrating. And he wasn't used to having to sleep while people watched him, which wasn't helping his temper much.. What kind of a hospital had glass walls?

If he lay here much longer, he was going to fall asleep. The hard wood was beginning to bother his back, only minutes after easing its previous suffering. God, was he getting old already? But, while he'd always been able to sleep on solid surfaces, it wasn't like he had ever actually enjoyed it. He remembered the first time he and Hal moved in together, the other man had been surprised he even owned a bed. Thought the legendary Solid Snake was too tough for a mattress. Dave allowed himself a grin.

A door slammed to his left, and he sat bolt upright, any sleepiness pushed away instantly by a minor adrenaline rush. A rumpled-looking man had just stepped out of his office. Without thinking Dave scanned the placard, which read Dr. James Wilson, Oncology. The man looked harmless enough, open face, tussled hair, not enough sleep, arms full of folders. He winced upon seeing Dave's face, which in its usual appraising look appeared close enough to a glare as to be nearly indistinguishable to the uninitiated.

"Sorry. Door needs new springs." He motioned towards it, upsetting the poorly balanced folders in his arms, which scattered all over the floor. Fortunately he had at least had the common sense to paper-clip the papers into the folders. "Dammit." He began scooping them up. Dave slipped off the bench and bent to help. One of the folders caught his eye, or rather its header, which read Henry Elder. He waited for the doctor to gather his own folders properly, then handed back the ones he had retrieved, Hal's on top.

"Are you working on Henry's case?"

The doctor looked up, surprised, and then down at his pile of folders. "Ah, not really, just a consult. Do you know him? Oh, are you the friend..." He trailed off, eyes meeting Dave's, filled with a mingle of apprehension and excitement. Dave mentally winced. Did everyone in this hospital know who he was? Was there some sort of circular going around? Nightly News? Who's Who in the Patient Roster?"

"That's right. Do you have anything new?"

"Um, I'm not really allowed to tell you, you understand." The doctor averted his eyes. At least he managed to keep from twitching away. Controlled nervousness.

"I'm his medical proxy. David Shellby." He smiled slightly- be friendly- held out a hand, which the doctor rapidly shifted folders around to be able to shake.

"James Wilson. Nice to meet you." He glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers. "I guess I can tell you, then. Dr. Foreman asked me in for a consult, suspecting possible lymphoma. He doesn't have it. No detectable cancers at all."

"I see. That's good news, I think." Lymphoma was a kind of cancer? It made sense. According to his door, the man was an oncologist.

"It is. If it were cancer far enough along to cause these symptoms, it would be too late for us to do anything for him." Wilson turned towards the elevator. "I'm really sorry, but I need to get these folders in. If you have any questions about anything, anything at all, feel free to stop by my office. It's right here, obviously." He nodded in a flustered way towards the door he had emerged from. "It was good, uh, good to meet you." He smiled at Dave, and then hurried away down the hallway, looking back over his shoulder twice. Dave waited for him to disappear into the elevator, and then wandered over to the staircase.

Hal's room, unsurprisingly, was exactly the same as it had been when he left. He moved to sit back in his chair, and then noticed that Hal's eyes were open a shade. "Hal?"

They slid open further. "Hey." God, he sounded even worse than that time he had gotten laryngitis, and that had been specifically directed at his throat.

"How you feeling?" Dave moved to stand next to him, checking the heart monitor instinctively. 63.

"Like crap." Breath. "You?"

Dave grinned, but his heart wasn't in it. "Fine. These chairs are murder to sleep in. Want me to call a doctor?"

Hal blinked, shook his head slightly, coughed. "Got nothing new... to tell them."

"You don't feel any different?"

"Same, but worse." Breath. "How'm I doing?"

Dave kept the grin, aware that he was never going to win any best actor awards. "Fine."

"That bad, huh?" Hal blinked. "Where do my glasses... keep going?"

"You keep falling asleep with them on. Want them?"

"No." He closed his eyes, waited a moment. "You ask her nicely... Mei Ling'd probably sign on... with you... for a while."

"Hal, you're going to be fine. And besides, you know how she nags. Even worse than you. It's not just smoking; she won't let me drink beer, leave the seat up, listen to the radio in the car..." Dave trailed off, watching for a smile, a glance, anything. Hal was ever-optimistic, even in the face of death. At least, he always had been until now.

"You've never ... been in the car... with Mei Ling." Just a twitch of his lips, really, but it reassured Dave all the same.

"You know she wouldn't, if I had been."

No answer.

"Hal?" Dave waited a minute, turned to go back to his chair.

"'M sorry, Dave."

"Huh?"

"Never really understood before... what it was like... to feel like your time... was running out." His voice trailed off into silence, indicating a return to unconsciousness. Dave sighed. After Shadow Moses he had eventually managed to put thoughts of FoxDie, of his impending death, out of his mind. A large part of that had been at Hal's urging. That didn't mean he had forgotten what it was like, wondering every day, every moment, if it would be his last.

Dave sat up abruptly. FoxDie...

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: No owning of MGS/2, or House M.D. involved

Well, we have reached the end of our exciting if slightly spastic adventure. It was, I will freely admit, quite a lot of fun. I hope you all enjoyed it as well, and thanks as always for your kind words.

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House was woken by the phone. After listening to it ring twice, he twisted around in the bed until he found the edge, began swiping at the bedside table. Eventually his hand closed around the elusive telephone. "What?"

"Dr. House?" Not one of his assistants. Not Wilson. Not even Cuddy.

"Who is this?"

"David Shellby."

"How did you get this number." House paused, considered. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"I need to talk to you."

"It seems like you already are. Or is that just me? You know how it is with pain meds, sometimes-"

"I think I might know what's wrong with Henry."

House waited. Nothing was forthcoming. "...and?"

"I can't explain over the phone."

The clock by his bedside read 5:59. "Damn."

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When House arrived at his office, his three assistants were already there, as was Snake.

He limped in the door, didn't bother to beat around. "Well?" His three assistants stared at him as he made his way over to the coffee machine. He made a face at them. It wasn't as though they had never seen him dragged in from out of his bed before.

"Almost five years ago, I was unknowingly infected with a virus created by a geneticist, called FoxDie. It was meant to kill me, but for some reason still hasn't gotten around to it. At the time, though, it spread to the people I met, killing two of them. I'm pretty sure it stopped being infectious pretty fast, or the doc wouldn't have let me loose on the population. But I met Henry then, while it was still active. He could have picked it up from me."

"How do you know it killed two people?" queried Foreman.

"I saw them die. It mimics a heart-attack."

"Five years ago you saw them die?" House asked, shoving the grain-laden filter into the machine.

"Yeah."

"Then unless this thing can go dormant, that's not it. You'll also notice," House swung his cane at the white board, "that among your friend's long list of problems, heart attack is not listed."

"We should still test him," said Chase.

"For what? Unknown and unidentified viruses?" Having shot Chase down, House paused, then turned on Snake. "Why did you suddenly decide to tell us this now?"

Snake looked at him levelly. "It just occurred to me."

"What else aren't you telling us?"

"What?"

House limped over. "Been to Asia lately? How about Africa, I hear it's full of problems that could use your special brand of help."

"I was in Africa almost three weeks ago."

"Why didn't you tell us that earlier?" shouted House.

"You didn't ask!"

House rounded on Cameron and Chase. "Why didn't you check him?"

"They both said they're not sleeping together," Cameron raised her arms defensively. "So it didn't matter."

"And you believed them?"

"We're _not_-"

"The fact that he thinks they spend enough time together to have picked up something else is another clue." House cut Snake off, continued, "Did you get your shots before you went?"

"Yes, of course."

"All of them?" House raised his eyebrows.

"Yes. I assume so. All the standard ones."

"Which ones?"

"I don't know. Rabies, Hepatitis, Typhoid fever, some other one..."

"Tetanus?" Foreman suggested.

"Have it already."

"Diphtheria?" Chase.

"Yeah."

"Yellow Fever?" Foreman again.

"Don't know. Don't think so."

"Where are your medical records kept? We'll check." Foreman grabbed a pen and paper.

"Uh, it won't be on file anywhere you would have access to..."

"Doesn't matter," broke in House. "If it was yellow fever, we'd be seeing kidney problems. He doesn't have any." House turned to Snake. "Where in Africa were you?"

Snake opened his mouth, paused.

"Medically relevant," reminded House.

"Nigeria."

"How long were you there?"

"Five days."

"Participate in any risky behaviour? Sex? Drugs? Rock and roll?" House raised an eyebrow, faked strumming a guitar chord.

Snake glared. "No."

"Did you receive any wounds, or touch any open wounds or blood?" Cameron. Chase and Foreman both turned to glance at her.

"Scratched open the back of my hand on some stucco at the hotel. Washed it off well. And no, no bathing in the blood of innocents." He met Cameron's gaze straight-on.

"I'm sure we're all glad to know about your moral status. If we could get back to your dying partner?"

Snake turned to look at House, who held out his hand.

"What?"

"Your hand, idiot." House made a come hither motion. Snake did so, held out his hand palm down. House grabbed it, inspected the back. There was a small fading scab and a few smaller already healed marks. "Any other wounds?"

"No."

"We'll need a blood sample."

"Why?"

"So I can add it to my collection of famous mercenaries' blood," House growled sarcastically, then rolled his eyes. "Because you might have passed on whatever it is you had to him, idiot."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"Not now."

"There wasn't three weeks ago, either."

"That you noticed."

"Fine. Whatever." Snake pulled up his sleeve and shoved out his arm. No one moved.

"Well? More blood sucking, less standing around." House glared at the three other doctors, who startled into movement. Foreman slipped out into the hallway, returned a minute later, hands full with a couple of syringes, cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol. He handed the swabs and alcohol to Chase and began to unwrap the syringes. Snake rolled his eyes.

"Just give it to me." He grabbed the wrapped syringes from Foreman, ripped them out and tucked the spare into the crook of his right arm. Without a wince he slipped the needle into his left arm, pulled the stopper until it was full and repeated with the second.

"Now that's what I like to see. Masochism!" House grinned. Everyone else in the room gave him irritated glares.

Snake pushed the syringes off on Foreman, turned and left.

"What now?" asked Chase.

"Go run the test for Lassa Fever. On both their blood. Or did you get to it already? I'm assuming you didn't, or you would have called to tell me you knew what was wrong with Sickie."

"It's way down there on the cool but useless list," said Foreman.

"Well, now it's both cool and use_ful_. Go run the test."

Foreman and Chase left, blood in hand. Cameron turned to House. "Even if Shellby did contract Lassa Fever in Africa, that doesn't explain how Elder wound up with it."

"So go find out."

----------------------------------------------------------

Dave, into the fidgeting stage of exhaustion, looked up from his current position beside the head of Hal's bed when the female doctor came in. Cameron. The one who disliked him. Wonderful. She was, he noticed, wearing a mask and gloves now.

"His temperature's up again. Have you figured out what it is?"

"We're running tests for Lassa Fever." She walked in and rummaged through a drawer, found the thermometer.

"When will you get the results back?"

"Soon." She stuck the end in Hal's ear, then apparently decided her answer was too curt and added, "a few minutes."

"If it is that, is it treatable?" Dave crossed his arms over his chest, resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. Aware that the doctor neither liked nor respected him, he was forced to keep the option of intimidation open.

"Yes. There's no unique cure, but it responds well to a specialized antibiotic."

"So he'll recover."

"If it is Lassa Fever, than it's likely. He's far advanced, but we've caught it in time. If the diagnosis is correct." She retrieved the thermometer, checked it. "We'll have to put him in an ice bath again in an hour unless his fever breaks." She tapped the instrument against her palm a few times then placed it on the top of a tray, moved it so it was squared against the corner, then began minutely adjusting the positioning of other instruments.

"What?" Dave, resigned, spared her an inquiring glance.

Dr. Cameron looked up at him, expression somewhere between a question and a glare.

"You came here to ask me something, right? Or him?" Dave glanced at Hal, who shifted slightly, sighed in his sleep. His heart monitor fluctuated momentarily before returning to a somewhat steady 68. "Henry?" He didn't wake. Dave turned back to Cameron, noting again the gloves and mask. "Should I be wearing those?"

"If we're right, than he got it from you and you've already fought off the infection and created your own antibodies. If you're worried about it, though..."

"It's fine." Dave waved a dismissive hand. "So. Ask."

"Lassa Fever is not highly contagious. It usually requires direct contact either through respiratory or gastrointestinal tracts with infected excrement. It can also be transferred through open wounds, which is how you must have picked it up."

"So?"

"There isn't conclusive data regarding the rate of sexual transmission of the disease. But after direct contact, it's by far the most likely possibility. Since you're already pushing the incubation period, it's almost the only one, really."

Dave began to reply, was distracted by Hal moving again. He was once again sweating heavily. "Henry?"

"Dave?" If Dave hadn't been pretty sure what Hal had been saying, he might not have picked it up.

"How're you feeling?"

"Meh."

"The doctors think they might know what's wrong with you."

"Good. Fix it?" He peered sleepily at Dave.

"Yeah, if they're right. They say it's only transferable sexually, though." Dave shot a hard glance at Dr. Cameron.

"That's not entirely true," began Dr. Cameron.

"Never... wished I slept with you... 'til now. 'Cept maybe that one time..."

"Huh?"

"You never want ... to weird out Jack?"

"Who hasn't?" Dave smiled.

"This is all very charming," said Dr. Cameron, "but if you contracted Lassa Fever from him, the fact remains-" she trailed off, watching Hal. Dave turned to him. He had tilted his head at an odd angle and was breathing strangely.

"Henry?" Dave bent to shake his shoulder, startled when instead it began to shake on its own.

"He's seizing. Grab his arms." Dave did as he was told, fighting to hold Hal down. For a sick guy weighing in at 140 when he was healthy, he was surprisingly strong. Dave gritted his teeth, watched the doctor hold his head and shove something into his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue.

The seizure lasted almost a minute, twice as long as the first time. It passed as quickly as it had come, Hal's muscles untensing all at once, leaving him limp and unconscious. Heart beat up to 75, but already dropping. "Hal? Dammit." Dave pulled at his shoulder gently. No response. Heart rate down to 62 where it was hovering. He turned to Dr. Cameron.

"Is he okay?"

She bent over Hal, checking his pupils quickly and efficiently with a penlight, then his pulse while watching the monitor. "He's stable for now." She paused.

"Look. You don't like us. I understand that. Maybe you're not personable, although I doubt that, so maybe you just don't agree with what we do. I don't really care. If you think he got this thing from me, and idly want to know how, well we're roommates for god's sake, we share food, bottles, plates, glasses, forks, the couch. His razor broke a couple of weeks ago, and I think he used mine for a while. That's probably your answer." Dave paused. "But," he continued on in a slightly sarcastic tone, "if you _need_ to know why he's sick to treat him and you're only going to believe what you already think anyway then fine, I slept with him once, twice, every night since I got back, okay? So just give him the damn stuff."

Dr. Cameron was staring. He stared right back, and she backed down, nodded. "I'll go check on the blood tests."

"Fine."

She turned to leave, and was intercepted by the entrance of doctors Chase and Foreman, also both in protective clothing. Dr. Chase moved over to the iv and began to hang a new bag. Dr. Foreman handed Dr. Cameron a computer print-out, then turned to Dave. "The results came back. Both your blood tested positive for Lassa Fever. We're starting him on Ribavirin. We're also going to give him blood transfusions and work on cycling out the liquid currently in his body."

"And then he'll be okay?"

"Yeah. He's fairly far advanced but with aggressive treatment he should pull through."

"I see. Thanks." Dave nodded, Dr. Foreman nodding back.

The black man turned back to Dr. Cameron. "You figure out how he got it?"

She shrugged. "Close proximity, possibly blood transference. There's no other explanation."

"Think House'll buy it?"

"House can think what he wants." Dr. Cameron nodded to Dave and turned to leave, Dr. Foreman turning with her.

"He always does."

------------------------------------------------------------

House tossed his oversized tennis ball in the air, caught it with his cane, feet firmly planted on his desk. Score. Wilson, the only other occupant of the room, rolled his eyes.

"So why did you take this case, anyway?"

House turned to look at him. "The guy had a seizure _in my office_. That looks suspicious."

"The guy could have just had the flu, and epilepsy! You've turned down people for worse. "

"Pshh. Snake probably would have killed me if I had turned him down, anyway. He's got a glare that could stop Cuddy at fifty paces." He looked up at Wilson from under his eyebrows. "That's nothing to be laughed at."

"Right. You were physically intimidated into taking the case."

"I happen to like my neck screwed on the right way." House tossed the ball again, caught it.

"Seriously. Why did you take the case?" Wilson leaned over towards the desk. House looked up, grinned.

"Dude. It was _Solid Snake_. I mean, come _on_."

---------------------------------------------------

"We are _so_ implementing some sort of sanitation protocol when we get home." Hal grabbed his glasses from Dave, slipped them on. It was the first time in a week he'd done it for himself. It felt good.

"I think using separate cutlery and glasses, and more careful shaving, would about cover it, Hal."

"You think that now, but next time you find me passed out in the bathroom..."

"I'll think that you should sleep more and spend less time on the computer."

"We'll see," said Hal, ominously, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He glanced down the hallway, then turned back to glance at Dave. "What are we going to do?" he asked, in a concerned tone.

"About what?"

"About the fact that apparently half the hospital staff know who we are. That's a serious security problem."

"Only five of them. And I doubt the older two would tell anyone." Dave grabbed Hal's chart off the edge of the bed, unclipped the papers and slid them inside his jacket, returning the empty clipboard to its hook.

"What about the other three?"

"They only know that we were here, and what we look like with horrible hair cuts. I think our secret's safe."

"You said the woman had it in for us."

"It's a passive dislike. She might hate us forever, but I doubt she would actually call us in. Besides, she's a doctor, not some kind of sleuth. How would she ever find us?" Dave grabbed Hal's watch off the dresser, handed it to him.

"I suppose."

"Don't worry about it. She can't be worse than Naomi, anyway."

Hal swung himself off the bed, one arm hovering over it in case it was needed for balance. After a few seconds he straightened up, smiled slightly.

"Okay?" Dave was watching him carefully.

"Yeah. Let's go."

"Right."

They made their way to the door.

"If you see any of the docs, head the other way. You're not scheduled for check out until tomorrow morning." Dave glanced both ways out of the glass door.

"Didn't want to say goodbye?"

"Something like that. You know how bad I am with goodbyes."

Dave pulled the door open, and they slid out into the corridor, both blending in almost immediately with the early afternoon rush, just two ordinary hospital well-wishers.

Sitting on the bed, along with the pulled ivs and monitor cords, was a slip of white paper. It read simply: Thanks, and was signed with a pair of initials. The first was a single slanted O, the two ends of the letter not quite meeting smoothly, forming a small x at the top. The second was two stylized Ss, which looked at a glance not unlike a pair of snakes.

------------------------------------------------------------

House grinned all day, even through clinic duty.

END


End file.
